


Focus on What We're Capable of Becoming

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: 4+1 fic, F/M, Fluff, Get together fic, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, fake dating fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 07:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11031315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Four times the other Guardians pretended to be Peter’s date—and the one time it wasn’t pretend.Or, Peter’s exes are showing up with a freakishly alarming frequency, and the other Guardians of the Galaxy take to pretending to be his date to avoid awkward scenes. Except, everything is still awkward, and nothing ends up being ‘pretend’ in the end.





	Focus on What We're Capable of Becoming

**Author's Note:**

> the idea popped into my head suddenly and demanded to be written; here goes my first gotg fic! hope you like it! for what it's worth, i imagine this as set after the events of gotg2, though nothing is really specifically referenced other than groot growing.
> 
> anywho, enjoy!

The first time it happens, he doesn’t _intend_ to yank Drax toward him and haul him in for a messy kiss. It just happens. Y’know, accidentally. On a whim. Like most things in Peter’s life.

He’s leaning up against the bar, waiting on another round of drinks, when he spots xem. He’d know the faint shimmer of that purple skin anywhere, and if he strains his ears he can catch the melodic chime of xer voice speaking to someone else. It’s as he’s staring, reminiscing, that xe looks up with those black unwavering eyes—all four of them—and spots Peter in an instant. Just as quick, xe abandons xer partner and starts to make a beeline for Peter.

He looks around for any of his teammates, anyone _period_ that he could snag to at least make it seem like he’s not alone. It’s not that his and M’ylak’s relationship ended on bad terms—rather, it ended on fantastic, sexy terms, with kisses blown and winks, well, winked. It’s just that Peter _knows_ xe’s going to proposition him, and Peter has never been able to turn xem away. Part of it is Peter’s natural desire to bed anyone who wants to bed him; part of it is M’ylak’s own genetic make-up, the one that pours out suggestive pheromones like a leaky faucet.

Peter blinks and xe’s a mere five feet away. He blinks again and a flash of grayish blue trimmed in red catches his eye. He throws out a hand without thinking and digs his nails into Drax’s bicep. He pulls him close, something made possible only because of how drunk Drax is, and starts to whisper hurriedly.

“An ex is coming this way, I need you to date me for five minutes, okay?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a confused response—which maybe raises some consent issues, but Peter is _panicking_ okay? Drax opens his mouth to reply and Peter cuts him off to plan both hands on the sides of his face and pull him in.

The kiss is… awkward. Messy. Drax’s lips stay open a beat too long and Peter ends up shoving his mouth into Drax’s rather than getting their lips to line up. The moment passes (though it seems to take an eternity) and Drax gets with the program easily enough. He curls one hand around Peter’s hip and rests the other at the nape of Peter’s neck.

“Peter?” M’ylak intrudes with xer humming tone. Xe’s smiling sheepishly, and looks more intrigued than Peter anticipated.

“Oh!” Peter feigns surprise as he and Drax break the kiss. He thanks his lucky stars that Drax keeps his mouth shut and stays close, stays pressed up against Peter’s side easily rather than walking away. “M’ylak, didn’t see you there!”

The unimpressed gleam in xer eyes tells a different story, but xe lets it slide. “Seems like you’re busy, Peter.” Xe gestures to Drax’s hand, still on his hip, as it pushes under Peter’s shirt and strokes over skin.

Peter blushes worse at that than being caught mid-lip lock. “Uh, yeah.”

M’ylak nods. “We’ll have to catch up another time. It was nice seeing you, Peter.” Xey nod, flash a grin, and then they’re off. Peter watches xem practically float through the crowd, back to her own partner.

“Thanks, man,” Peter mutters as he slaps a hand on Drax’s shoulder. “Sorry about that.”

Drax stares at him silently for a long while. “It was nothing,” he replies just as quietly. Slowly his hand slides from Peter’s hip, and he nods. “I am returning to the ship.” He doesn’t _ask_ , but Peter hears it anyway.

He casts a quick glance at the bartender, but since he never actually got that other round he figures there’s no harm done. He nods at Drax, and replies. “Yeah, let’s go.”

 

 

 

Peter is feeling downright _blessed_ the next time it happens.

He’s swaying in a decently tame crowd with Gamora pressed up against his front. It had been his idea, sure, to go see some band none of them have ever heard of, but Gamora had agreed so quick Peter wanted to check her for a fever. He didn’t, but he had wanted to. That’s how they ended up in the crowd, Gamora leaning against him, his hands on her hips, both of them swaying in time to the soft crooning echoing around them.

It's perfect, unassuming, until a hand hits Peter’s shoulder with enough force that his knees buckle. He looks over and gulps back a sigh, because he’d know that big hairy hand anywhere.

“Quill!” The beast exclaims jovially. His voice brings Gamora’s attention into the fold as well, though to Peter’s delight she doesn’t stop swaying or step out of his grasp. “It’s been too long.” The hand on Peter’s shoulder slips to rest between his shoulder blades, then drifts down his spine none-too-subtly.

“H-hey, Bloc!” Peter manages a grin. “Yeah, it’s been, what? Ten years?”

Bloc nods. “At the very least.” His gaze shifts to Gamora (though his hand continues to drop lower, until he’s grazing the top of Peter’s ass). “Who is this?”

Peter ignores the ever-present flare of jealousy in the tone, and opens his mouth to answer with something innocuous. It’s awful, but his first thought is to say _sister_ , so he’s grateful when Gamora pipes up instead.

“I am his girlfriend,” she says simply. Her hands move to cover Peter’s, still on her hips. “He is mine,” she adds while bearing her teeth just slightly.

Bloc has always been more bark than bite, and he quickly cowers under Gamora’s unspoken threat. “Well you’re a lucky lady, then.” He retracts his hand from Peter’s backside so fast, he might as well’ve been burned. “Well Peter it was good to see you, but I should go.” He tips an imaginary hat, and then he merges with the crowd and Peter loses sight of him.

He practically sags against Gamora. “Thank you,” he breathes against her neck.

She hums thoughtfully and keeps swaying.

 

 

 

The third time it happens, Peter seriously wonders if this is a conspiracy against him, set about by… the universe, probably. Or something. He hasn’t seen any of his ex’s in ages, and yet in the span of a month he’s ran into three of them on three separate planets. The odds just don’t add up, quite frankly.

“Starlord,” they chirp softly. “I never thought I’d see the day.” Their two rows of teeth stack menacingly in their mouth, even if their lips shine with a soft pink gloss.

“Yeah, Aswe’ah,” Peter replies, utterly unhelpful. “How ya been?” He asks while trying to lean subtly away, especially as Aswe’ah leans in closer.

“Alright,” they reply. Their voice is just as melodic as M’ylak’s, though more mystifying and definitely more unsettling. “And you?”

“He’s been peachy freakin’ keen.”

Peter squeaks when pinpricks of claws land on him. He tilts his head up enough to watch Rocket get comfortable across his shoulders. Rocket’s tail curls around him, tickles his cheek, and Rocket braces one hand in Peter’s hair.

Aswe’ah looks startled, but doesn’t back down.

Rocket sneers and tightens his grip in Peter’s hair. It wrings a startled, somewhat pained gasp from Peter’s lips. Rocket beams with pride and Peter wants to tell him off, but he knows that would be profoundly counter-productive to solving the issue at hand.

“Scram.” Rocket barks it out, and Peter is only half-surprised when Aswe’ah obeys, scuttling away the way they came.

“Rocket—?”

“Don’t mention it.” Rocket’s grip in his hair loosens, but he doesn’t clamber down from Peter’s shoulder. Rather, he seems content to stay right where he is. “Is there a list, though? Feel like you oughta hand out a list so we know who to keep an eye out for.”

Peter groans. “There’s no way I could list them all.”

Rocket laughs. “Gross,” he snorts.

 

 

 

The next time it happens (which is, somehow, not the _last_ time) there’s not any speaking involved. Which is probably for the best, given that the teammate that saves him this time ‘round is Groot, and Peter still struggles in his fluency on occasion. Especially under duress.

And being pinned up against a wall just outside a smoky club by an ex definitely counts as _duress_.

Worst of it is, Peter doesn’t remember her name. She had been a stow-away on Yondu’s ship at one point, when Peter was barely eighteen. She’d been around for maybe a week, and Peter knows perfectly well she fucked her way through the crew, himself included. He’s not even sure he knew her name back then, only that he certainly doesn’t know it now.

She’s purring against his lips, but not quite kissing him yet. Her nails are long, sharp, digging into his pectorals painfully deep.

Peter’s trying to think of something to say, but she cornered him out here unexpectedly. The rest of his team is inside, no one saw him leave to get some air, he’s alone except for mystery-ex in all her faintly glowing pink glory.

Until he feels a leafy tendril sneak around his ankle. He sighs in relief, and mystery-ex grins until it’s apparent that his relief is _not_ because of her. She looks up from staring hungrily into Peter’s eyes—she looks up, and up, until she can meet Groot’s eyes.

Peter’s never been so happy that the colossus returned to his former size. Groot doesn’t even have to say anything; he just winds his arm, sprouting with leaves and small flowers, across Peter’s shoulders, trails down his chest to his hip. He creates a barrier between Peter and mystery-ex, and when Groot takes a single step closer the woman takes off in a huff.

Peter collapses against the wall with a long exhale. “Thanks, man.” He pats the vine that’s twined around his body gently.

“I am Groot,” is the delicate reply.

“Yeah, let’s go back to the ship, you’re right.” He lets Groot lead the way, and doesn’t mind that the vine never untangles from him the whole walk back to the Milano.

 

 

 

When all is said and done, Peter still can’t quite put a name to what happened.

He’d been kidnapped, that he knows; he’d woken up somewhere strange, with bad lighting, and a somewhat familiar booming voice filling the room. He knows it involved an ex, one that evidently rose to power over an entire planet. He knows his friends burst in at just the right moment and got him out safe and sound. All of that makes sense, for the most part.

What makes less sense is that they all end up back at the Milano in a puppy-pile on his bed. With him in the center.

“Guys,” he tries quietly, almost afraid to disturb the peace. No one answers him, which is both good and bad. He’s not one to talk about feelings, so he’s happy to ignore… whatever this is. But he’s also _dying_ to know why they’re all cuddled around him, all touching him, and _why_ they had all cooed over him once they got back to the ship.

Peter thinks back. It’s not even like he was hurt. A little sore around the wrists, sure; shitty binding will do that to fragile Terran skin, even his. A headache, sure, but that’s to be expected from getting knocked out. Hell, even when Rocket blew a hole in the side of the castle, Peter had come out unscathed. All in all, it’s the rest of his friends that ended up looking worse for wear. Not him.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” Rocket mutters unhappily. He’s curled across Peter’s neck, and his fur is once again tickling Peter’s chin. “We did it because you’re ours, doofus.”

“The panda is correct,” Drax rumbles beside him. Peter is mostly propped up against his chest. “Ours.”

“I am Groot.” It’s supplied helpfully, and Peter cranes his neck to look up at Groot staring back down at him. He and Drax both are slightly pillowed in Groot’s lap, but the colossus’ vines wind around all of them to keep them together on the twin bed.

“I thought that had been established,” Gamora adds, her words muffled from where she’s pressed against Peter’s shoulder. “Was it not?”

Peter wants to say _no_ , it was _not_. He would’ve remembered something like that—something like entering a polyamorous relationship with his four teammates spanning five different species. But when he opens his mouth, no words come to mind. Not until Rocket has started to doze again and Drax is out like a log, snoring heavily.

“Well, there wasn’t a formal conversation, or anything.” Peter stresses this, stresses its importance though it really doesn’t matter now.

Gamora hums. “Consider this a formal conversation, then.” She lifts her head long enough to eye him suspiciously. He can practically see the question posed on the tip of her tongue, so he hurries to answer it.

“Yeah, okay.”

Gamora smiles, something soft and rare and warm. She settles back down, her face against his shoulder and one hand cupping Rocket’s back affectionately.

Peter relaxes and lets his eyes drift shut again. It’s almost too warm, and the air is heavy, and Groot’s mossy odor is overwhelming—but as he drifts off to sleep, Peter can’t think of anywhere else he’d want to be.


End file.
